Nice Work if You Can Get It
by cherishiskisa
Summary: Two-shot Destiel AU set in the Great Depression. The Winchesters are the only family in Lawrence, Kansas that hasn't given up yet, and Dean, the eldest son, works enough to keep the whole town going. The Miltons leave their San Francisco home with the Works Progress Administration to bring culture to towns in need. Through the heat and the dust, two boys find love.
1. Chapter 1

_HELLO I AM BACK BUT IT IS NOT WITH LES MIS I AM SORRY._

_I'm fully integrated into that fandom, and roleplaying e/R like there's no tomorrow, but I'm still shy about writing actual things. Though I DEFINITELY have ideas. Definitely. So maybe there'll be something soon._

_In the meantime, I present you with yet another 20th century Americana Destiel AU. Because I can't stop myself._

_We were learning about the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl in class, and learned all about the droughts in Kansas, and the CCC, and the WPA, and I thought "OH MY GOD DESTIEL DESTIEL DESTIEL."_

_So I wrote it._

_Here's part one of a two-shot. Part two will be up in four days, hopefully._

_Please review with your thoughts, friends! If you liked it, if you didn't... let me know. I love feedback very, very much._

_And with that..._

* * *

The Depression hit everybody hard, but it probably hit the Winchesters the hardest.

The Winchesters. The only family keeping Lawrence, Kansas together in any way whatsoever. A beautiful couple with their beautiful, strong sons—the youngest smart, the eldest good with his hands. They all helped out around the farm, producing just as much as was needed of them, and were well-provided for by the state in terms of financial security.

And then the soil dried up.

Every family in Lawrence (and all over the Dust Bowl) with any sense sent its eldest son off to California, or the East Coast. There would be work there, and he could send back money and supplies. But the Winchesters kept their sons, or, rather, their sons kept the Winchesters. Dean—for that was the eldest son's name—flat-out refused to be sent away from his momma who needed him, his poppa who needed him, his Sammy who needed him.

And because of this, Lawrence, Kansas managed to survive. Dean worked extra, milking the now-arid land for all it was worth, just to keep his family living and breathing. He insisted that Sam keep going to school, though it was almost pointless at that point: the teachers were too hot and too hungry to teach, and the students were too hot and too hungry to learn.

As to Mary and John, parental units of this tough-as-nails family, well—they didn't approve of Dean's wasting his opportunities to have an actual life (at least, John didn't approve: Mary was just glad to know both of her sons were alright every day). They thought Dean would be more help outside of Lawrence, but were too shy to tell him so, so they let him stick around. He was 17, and old enough to make his own decisions. Sam was 13, and therefore too young to, but no one would have let him leave even if he were. He was far too loved in Lawrence.

(It wasn't that Dean wasn't loved. He was very popular—before the Depression, he'd kissed every girl over the age of 15 in town. He didn't bother too much with school, because when the soil was fertile and the harvest was plentiful, he was always helping at the farm. But, without fail, he attended each and every dance that was held in the town hall.

After the soil dried up, there were no more dances for Dean to attend.)

Sam was Lawrence's baby, in a way. All the mothers wished he was theirs, and no mother was more proud of a child than Mary was of Sam. He was mild-mannered and well-behaved, and he loved nothing more than curling up with a good book.

All of that changed when the dust storms hit, and then Dean became the Winchesters' prize son. Sam had to work out on the farm when he wasn't at school, but when he _was_ at school, Dean worked extra. He would walk miles and miles—that is, after the car wouldn't run and the horses wouldn't go—to the nearest big town to restock supplies, try to haggle for better seed to sow, get better tools for the farm.

He didn't tell anyone, but when food started getting low, he would give up his meals to Sam. His brother was still growing, needed extra nutrients, but Dean—Dean was mostly already done.

And as the dust and dirt swirled in the air and the Winchesters huddled in the cellar, they prayed for rain and respite that they thought would never come.

* * *

Halfway across the country, in San Francisco, California, the Miltons had barely even known about what was happening across the mountains.

The Miltons were a large, quiet, religious family of musicians. Together, they were a chamber ensemble: the youngest son played the clarinet, the youngest daughter played the flute, the middle son played the viola, the eldest son played the violin, and the father played the cello. When Mrs. Milton was still alive, she played second violin. Their music never sounded quite the same with her gone.

When the Great Depression hit, a religious fervor that they'd been missing for years lit up inside of them and they signed up to be a part of the WPA.

The Works Progress Administration was started by the President to help towns in dire need of assistance—the portion that the Miltons became a part of was the one that brought culture to backwoods areas that may never have heard classical music before. Together with a small troupe of actors, painters, and other musicians, they set out across the Sierra Nevadas into the dusty Midwest.

Castiel, Rachael, Gabriel, Michael, and their father, Abraham, packed up their instruments and left their life behind for the greater good.

Nevada was first, but it was mostly alright there.

New Mexico was startlingly bleak, and oddly devoid of eldest sons—all the mothers proudly announced their boys were in the CCC—and received the Miltons well.

But when they got to Kansas…

It was a disaster zone, more or less. The Miltons had heard there would be plains, and not very many large cities, and Castiel had found pictures in the library, but none of them had expected just what devastation they would find there.

The first few towns they came through weren't even towns anymore. There were houses, but upon inspection, they proved to be abandoned.

The Milton children said double prayers that night, and Castiel had nightmares.

They saw clouds of dust in the distance, first thing the next morning, but the storm wasn't headed in their direction.

Supplies began to run faintly low on their third day in Kansas, so the children prayed extra hard to find a real town.

And the very next day, they did.

The sign read "Lawrence," and the houses, although shabby, looked very much lived-in. Castiel thought he could see faint flickers of activity behind the canvas-covered windows, but they may have been shadows cast by his imagination—since there were no clouds in the sky.

But no one came out to greet them.

Everything around was sepia or in shades of grey. It was like walking into a black-and-white picture, Castiel thought to himself. There were a few very sad-looking dogs skulking in the shadows, but beyond that—no one.

The WPA party stopped their cars and got out to explore. If the people weren't going to come out to them, they were going to come in to the people.

Castiel walked with his siblings for a few minutes before ambling off alone. He always thought better when he was alone—even though he didn't have much to think about now.

And after crossing almost halfway through the town, he saw someone.

The someone was a boy. He looked to be about a year or two older than Castiel, although he was much taller and broader and just as sepia-coloured as the land around him. His sandy-haired head was uncovered, and he was clad in a simple pair of britches and a dusty white wifebeater. He was carrying a bucket in each hand as he walked to a large structure that appeared to have once been a stable.

Castiel's heart leapt and he quickened his walking pace in an attempt to approach him, but he soon noticed that something was wrong. The boy's stride was faltering and his shoulders were slumped, and after a few more steps, he glanced up once at the sky before crumpling to the ground.

Castiel let out a startled cry and ran over to him without a thought, calling for his father to come and help. He fell to his knees by the boy's side and pulled his upper half into his lap, feeling for a pulse, a heartbeat, a breath, anything.

He looked up again desperately when he thought he didn't find anything, calling out for Abraham again, when there was a dry chuckle from below him.

"Relax," a voice croaked, "ain't you ever seen a little heat stroke before?..."

Castiel jumped, startled, and looked down. The boy in his lap was smiling weakly up at him, sandy eyelashes fluttering over warm green eyes. His cheeks were dusted with freckles, and something in his expression changed as his gaze locked with Castiel's.

"N-no," Castiel managed to stammer out, still surprised by this stranger's apparent resurrection, but the boy wasn't listening to him, pupils going wider.

"Lord, Momma," he whispered, one hand trembling up a little but not quite making it to Cas's face, "so much blue—Momma, it's rainin'…"

And with that, his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness again.


	2. Chapter 2

_hhhhhh that took a lot longer than 4 days i'm sorry_

_But to make up for it, this part's longer._

_AND, it concludes this story!_

_So I hope you enjoy the last installment of it. It's been super fun. _

_I've already started on my very first Les Mis story. Also going to be short, probably. Set during World War 2, ooh._

_ANYWAy. Please leave a review, be it positive or negative! I love you all for reading. Mwah._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

They carried him to the nearest house, where a frantic woman who didn't look all too happy to see strangers there pointed them over to the Winchester residence.

"That's Dean," she told them, voice bearing the same drawl that the boy's had. "And he better recover real quick, 'cause the whole town relies on him."

Castiel was faintly repelled by her utter lack of caring about Dean's wellbeing, but helped to carry him along to the farmhouse she'd said the Winchesters lived in.

Abraham kept Dean upright as Castiel ran to knock on the door. "Hello?" he called, peering in at the windows. "Um—Winchesters? We have your son, he collapsed from the—"

The door was wrenched open, and a boy who bore little resemblance to Dean—floppy hair and gangly limbs—stared at Castiel. "Did something happen to Dean?" he asked, eyes huge, and Castiel nodded.

"Heat stroke," he explained and gestured back to him.

"He'll be fine," Abraham called with a smile, adjusting his hold on the unconscious figure of Dean. "We're the Miltons, by the way, here with the—"

"Get him inside," Sam gasped, hands fluttering as he pushed the door open even further for them. "Momma? Dean's home, sun got to him again—"

A blonde woman in an apron emerged from a back room, frowning in concern. "Oh, dear. Not again. We're obviously out of ice—" She came to a halt, raising an eyebrow at Castiel and Abraham. "And who's this?"

"The Miltons," Abraham said gallantly. "We're with the WPA, here to bring a little culture back to towns in need—I'm Abraham, this is my son Castiel, my other children are out befriending the locals."

"It's a pleasure, I'm sure," the woman said warily and then returned her attention to Dean. "Now then, Mr. Milton, if you could just set him down on that bed there… Sam, run and get your father."

"Yes'm," Sam chirped and was out the door in the blink of an eye.

"You best start gettin' your people indoors, Mr. Milton," the woman was saying as Abraham lay Dean down on the bed. "There's a storm comin'. But there's always a storm coming these days."

"So we've heard," Abraham sighed, and the woman bent over Dean, pressing a hand to his forehead to check his temperature.

"I'm Mary, by the way, and my husband is John," she told them, straightening up once more. "My sons are Dean and Sam. You're very welcome here in Lawrence, though it may not seem that way at first."

Castiel fidgeted slightly and then decided it was time to speak up. "Will Dean be alright?" he asked quietly, taking a small step forward, and Mary smiled at him.

"Yes, child, he will be. A little heat fever every once in a while never hurt any Winchester," she said with a firm nod. "Just a few hours' rest and he'll be back on his feet, strong and healthy as always."

Still dubious, Castiel nodded.

"Thank you for bringin' him in in time, though," she added with a fond glance at Dean's prostrate form. "If he'd stayed out there in the sun, maybe he wouldn't have been fine."

Castiel bit at his lip. "So this happens often?"

Mary sighed. "Unfortunately. There's not much we can do about it, seeing as how there's never any clouds. Where did you say you all were from?"

"San Francisco," Abraham said proudly.

"Oh, California," she sighed, a dreamy look in her eyes. "I've always wanted to go. Is it as wonderful as they say?"

Castiel and Abraham exchanged a glance. "Much more so," Abraham told her.

Just then, the door swung open, and a tall man who looked more like Dean than like Sam strode in. "Dean let the sun get to him again?" he asked, voice drawling and disinterested.

Mary nodded and smoothed the hair back from her son's forehead. "Poor thing."

John sighed. "I'll go to the cellar and get the cold stuff. Be right back."

He retreated off into the depths of the house, leaving the two Miltons with Mary, Sam, and Dean in a slightly awkward silence.

"You, uh, said you were here with the—?" Mary began politely, waiting for Abraham to fill in the blank.

"Works Progress Administration, ma'am," Abraham explained. "My children and I form a chamber ensemble, and we have a programme of light classical music that we've been playing all over the Midwest."

"How admirable," Mary said with a small smile. "Well, I'm sure we'll be able to clean up the town hall nice for you, if enough people are willing to attend. It'd be nice to hear some nice music again."

John returned from the cellar, bearing a brown bottle. "He still not fully conscious yet?"

Mary shook her head and stepped back from his side a little. "I think he'll be comin' around in a moment or two, though."

Something inside of Castiel twinged faintly. He'd liked the look of Dean, conscious. His eyes, his smile. The rasp in his voice, although that was probably a side effect of the heat stroke.

John approached the bedside, unscrewing the top of the bottle. "Dean. Hey, son, time to wake up."

There was a very, very faint sleepy sound from Dean, and John rolled his eyes.

"He's probably been fakin' it this whole time, trying-ta get out of having to do his work…" He brought the bottle to Dean's slightly parted lips and tilted it.

Castiel dared to take another small step in, peering at him.

Dean's eyes snapped open and he sat bolt up, spluttering and gasping. "Why'd you—_Poppa_," he whined, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "That ain't fair."

"Neither is you faking heat stroke, now drink up," John said sternly and handed him the bottle properly.

"Wasn't faking," Dean grumbled, taking the bottle. "Just ask the boy with the eyes like rain, he'll tell you."

Castiel jumped slightly, said eyes going wide, as John turned to him.

"I take it you mean this scrawny kid here?" he asked coolly, and Dean appeared to jump a little, too, as his gaze traveled over to Castiel.

"Hi," Castiel managed to say with a feeble smile.

Dean sat up a little higher, returning his smile. "Hiya."

"Never caught your name, by the way," John said gruffly, looking from Abraham to Castiel, "or why you're here."

"We're with the—" Abraham began to say, but Mary cut in.

"They're the Miltons, with an administration from the President, and they'll be playing music for us later tonight, if you can get the men to clean up the hall."

"And I'm Dean," Dean said brightly for Castiel's benefit. "You were the one I saw earlier, right? When I, uh, collapsed? Because _someone _wouldn't give me my hat—"

Sam, standing in the corner of the room, stuck his tongue out at his brother.

Castiel nodded. "That was me, yes. I'm Castiel."

Dean smiled, a glint of something unfamiliar in his eyes. "I owe ya for a lot of things, then, Cas."

"Oh, hardly," Castiel said with something like a bashful smile, but he sensed that that wasn't what Dean meant, and that sense made him shiver.

Dean nodded amicably at him and took another long pull of whatever was in the brown bottle. "Thanks, Pa."

"Anytime," John grunted and then took it away from him. "But that's enough of that, now. You best get to cleanin' the town hall, boy, we've got company, didn't you hear your mother?"

Dean grumbled and swung his legs over the side of the bed so he was sitting up and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll assemble the boys, then," he said glumly.

"We'll join you all in a little while," John told him with a small, proud smile.

"Yeah, yeah, just hurry, 'cause you know we can't do it alone," Dean grumbled and stood. "You comin', Cas?"

Castiel blinked, faintly confused. "Um—are you talking to me?"

"Yes, you," Dean said with a raised eyebrow. "Didn't'cha hear me the first time? You comin' with us or not?"

"I…" After a quick glance at Abraham, Castiel nodded. "I—yes. Thank you."

"No need-ta thank me," Dean sighed, snagged a quietly protesting Sam by the sleeve to drag him out, and briskly left the house.

Bemused, Castiel followed, blinking in the bright sunlight, as Dean wandered along the streets, knocking on doors and hollering for his friends to come help out.

Soon, they'd assembled a group of around ten boys Sam's age, and they all cheerfully made their way over to the large structure in the centre of town. They talked loudly and cursed like sailors, making Castiel blush even more than the heat had already made him. But they all seemed a strong bunch, and good at heart. Castiel doubted how well the concert would be received, but was sure his sister would enjoy the company of attractive young men her age that weren't her brothers.

Once inside the town hall—and after Castiel had finished coughing in the dusty air and wiping his watering eyes—the boys set to work, using brooms, cloths, mops, and even their shirts to start clearing away the grime. Some of them attempted to make small talk with Castiel, and after he'd assured them that he wasn't there to convert them to Catholicism, left him alone because that was all they'd wanted to confirm.

But after what seemed like a lifetime, a gloriously ruffled Dean appeared and tapped Castiel on the shoulder. "Hey. Come and walk a spell with me, wouldja?"

Castiel looked up from the spot on the floor he was attempting to clear off. "Er—what for?"

Dean gave a small smile and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "I can tell you need fresh air, West Coast city boy."

Castiel dropped his gaze, a little bashful. "Maybe a little," he admitted and stood by Dean's side.

"That's what I thought," Dean drawled and began to walk out of the hall, Castiel at his heels.

Once they were outside, Castiel inhaled deeply. To be honest, it wasn't all that different inside from out—the air seemed to be more dust than oxygen—but it made him feel slightly better.

Dean was watching him and chuckled softly to himself. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Castiel sighed.

And then Dean's hand was closing around his arm again. "Come with me."

Castiel shivered slightly even though it must have been eighty-five degrees outside, and followed where Dean led.

Where Dean led turned out to be a quiet corner between a shed and the town hall.

"Dean, what—"

"I see the way you been lookin' at me," Dean interrupted, that same unreadable something in his eyes again, and suddenly Castiel was terrified, because he thought he'd hid it all so well, and Abraham had told him _so often_ that the way Castiel felt about boys was a _sin_, and no one seemed to take news of Castiel's perversion well, but—

"I—I'm sorry," he managed to gasp out, shrinking back into himself. "I—"

There was a soft, dry laugh from Dean, and his hand released Castiel's arm to slide around to his back, pulling him in to press their bodies and their lips together.

They kissed against the side of the town hall for what felt like an eternity, and every worry and every care and every fear in Castiel's mind faded away, replaced only by Dean. They kissed until their lungs burned, and they kissed until they heard the faint sounds of the boys inside wondering where Dean had gone off to.

Finally, they released each other and just stayed close, sucking in hungry breaths, foreheads pressed together. Castiel hummed softly to himself and wrapped his arms around Dean's waist, pulling him into a tight hug.

"I'm sorry for not asking first," Dean murmured into Castiel's hair. "I just figured it was worth the risk—"

"Oh, definitely," Castiel confirmed with a breathless laugh and tilted up for another kiss.

And after a couple more minutes, they pulled away for good and, after exchanging bashful smiles, went back into the town hall. No one asked any questions, thankfully.

The hall had cleaned up nicely in their absence, and the boys turned to Castiel for confirmation that this would be a satisfactory performance space for the WPA. He told them, very sincerely, that it would be, and they seemed very proud of themselves.

The concert went well, and was received well, and after, when Dean pulled Castiel aside and whispered to him that he'd have to put his clarinet-playing lips to good use later on, Castiel blushed, even though he didn't understand what the other boy had meant.

The Miltons spent a total of a week in Lawrence, sharing their supplies with the very grateful populace.

But soon, they all began to realize that they couldn't stay forever.

Rachael exchanged tearful goodbyes with each of the boys she'd had as her sweetheart over the week. Gabriel bid a farewell to each of his new best friends. Michael, in lofty tones, talked business with the fathers that Abraham had befriended.

But Castiel and Dean spent the whole day together, hidden from everyone else, kissing and whispering soft promises to each other, knowing they'd probably never meet again. Castiel told Dean about the CCC and how wonderful he'd be in it, and told him the whole list of states the WPA was sending them to next. He mused aloud about how their paths could cross in one of those states, and Dean just shook his head and told him he couldn't ever leave Lawrence while his family still needed him.

So Castiel promised to come back. Once the Depression was over and the Dust Bowl had cleared, he'd come back for Dean and they'd move out west, where there would be clear skies and clear water and clear air, just for the two of them.

Castiel promised, and Dean promised he'd be there waiting.

They exchanged more kisses than they'd ever thought was even possible, and Castiel wrote down his address on a scrap of paper for him. "Write to me, Dean. As soon as you can."

"I promise," Dean whispered. "I'll walk to the next big city every day and I'll write to you every day."

"You don't have to do that," Castiel tried to tell him, but Dean silenced him with a firm kiss.

"Yes, I do."

And the WPA left town, more reluctant than they'd ever been to leave a place they'd helped.

Both boys kept their promises.

THE END.


End file.
